Hold Me Close (Let Me Go)
by EmilyFuckingFitch
Summary: Time Travel AU. Set after 4x22


**A/N:** The writing pattern, if you need help distinguishing it, is this: A, A1, B.

A, A1 = Root's past, with the exception being the beginning and end, which only has A and not A1.  
B = The past that Root travelled to.

Other than that, I think it's pretty straight-forward, but you can inbox me at .com if you're confused/have questions about any part of it.

* * *

 _This is what love does: It makes you want to rewrite the world. It makes you want to choose the characters, build the scenery, guide the plot. The person you love sits across from you, and you want to do everything in your power to make it possible, endlessly possible. And when it's just the two of you, alone in a room, you can pretend that this is how it is, this is how it will be._

 _(Every Day – David Levithan)_

* * *

This is the story she will tell:

She met Shaw, and they fell in love. One of them, reluctantly. The other, whole-heartedly. And through the danger, through the loss, through their lives falling apart, still, they had each other.

And it was enough.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, Ms. Groves?"

"Harold," Root says patronizingly, gives him a half-smile as she wraps the timepiece around her wrist. "You think I haven't thought this through?"

"I think," Finch says, stopping her from locking the device. "Your judgment is clouded."

"By?"

He shakes his head, but doesn't elaborate further. Instead, he warns, "Choose wisely, Ms. Groves. The date that you choose can very well change the course—"

"I know," Root cuts him off irritably, pulling her wrist away from him.

She clicks the timepiece into place.

Finch sighs, but doesn't move to stop her again. "I must caution you that—"

"I know," Root interrupts again. "We've been over this," she says, then after a moment, places her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I know."

He gives her a smile, one of timid reassurance. "Stay safe, Ms. Groves."

Root nods. "Can you hold your own here?"

"Mr. Reese and I will do our best."

It's not the answer she wants to hear, but she accepts it anyway. She steps back from him, and dials the device back to a specific date.

"Harold," Root says suddenly, looking up at him, her hand on top of the trigger.

"Yes, Ms Groves?"

Root looks down at the device, then back at him.

"If I don't make it back, take care."

* * *

They told her Shaw died fighting, with her hands around his neck, and her knife piercing his chest.

They told her Shaw died thinking she'd won, with Root's name on her lips, and a smirk on her face.

(Maybe she did, but in the end, it was Root who'd lost.

After all, her life came at the cost of Shaw's.)

* * *

The first thing she feels is a migraine. A head-splitting, head-throbbing headache drilling through her skull. The vibrations shake against her skin, her bones, against every fiber, every cell. Her body's pulled forward, pulled apart, and her throat closes up, her lungs closing in.

She closes her eyes, gasps desperately for air that doesn't yet exist.

If this is death coming to collect, it's going to have to try harder, Root thinks. She won't let herself die, not until Shaw's back, breathing and alive.

* * *

In another life, in another world, in another time, Shaw would still be standing here.

(But she wasn't.

Root was.)

* * *

"Root?"

Root coughs violently, the oxygen abruptly filling her lungs. She leans forward—her hands on her knees—and inhales deeply, tries to get her breathing to even.

She feels a hand rub circles against her back. Slowly. Reluctantly.

"Seriously, Root," the voice says gruffly. "What's up with you?"

Her eyes immediately open. She knows this voice. She used to hear it every single day, years ago. She's dreamed of this voice for so long.

How could she ever forget?

With a purse of the lips and a timid, blooming smile, she looks up, not knowing what to expect, but fully knowing who it is.

"Is there a reason why you're stranger than usual?" the woman in front of her asks.

It's Shaw.

Root shakes her head, lets out a laugh of disbelief—of relief. The device Harold had built, the one resting on her wrist. It worked.

"I'm fine, Sam," Root says, wipes away the moisture in her eyes. "Better than I have been in a long time."

"Yeah," Shaw says skeptically, rolling her eyes. "Whatever. Just watch my back while I cover the front."

Root nods, grabbing the gun Shaw offers, and takes her lead.

They locked her in the subway station shortly after Shaw's death. A danger to the mission, they explained, and hid away the key. But if they were being honest, they would've told her this:

She was a danger to the civilians, to the team—she was simply a danger to them all.

(But what they called recklessness, she called emptiness:

What was there left to lose when she'd lost Shaw?

In her eyes, she'd already lost it all.)

"I missed this," Root mutters against her neck, her body on top of Shaw's, their skins slick with sweat.

Shaw laughs through heavy breaths, coming down from her high. "Hasn't been that long," she says, pushing Root's shoulder lightly—for her to roll off, Root assumes, and she complies. "Monday," Shaw reminds her.

Root doesn't remember.

She doesn't remember because it's been years. Time may not have passed for Shaw, but for Root, it has.

Root props herself up with her elbow. "It feels longer than that," she says vaguely, admits more to Shaw than she's letting on.

At that, Shaw narrows her eyes, looks at her strangely. She's searching for something, but Root doesn't know what she's hoping to find. But then the moment passes, and the expression on Shaw's face shifts. With a frown, she warns:

"Don't get used to it."

Root gives her a sad smile, brushing Shaw's hair away from her face. She leans in, presses a soft kiss on her cheek.

"I know."

* * *

The world slowly crumbled beneath her feet, but even as the burning buildings collapsed, still the Gods refused defeat.

And there she was, remained in her cell.

(This world was flawed, through and through.

This world sentenced Shaw to die.

This world let her survive.

So let it burn.

Let it burn, and they can start anew.)

* * *

Root knows what Shaw's about to do before Shaw does, and it catches Shaw in surprise:

It's Root who kisses her first, it's Shaw who's being pushed back, and it's Root who locks the elevator shaft.

It's Root who says goodbye, and with a smile, walks into gunfire, ignoring the shouts of protest from behind.

* * *

One day, Finch came to her cell, and told her this:

Much of the world has been reduced to rumble, and most have divided themselves to one faction, or the other. It won't be long for a God to surrender, less there be no world left to wage war over.

In response, Root smiled.

(In time, they'll understand how it feels

to lose something worth fighting for.

And soon they too will wish

for the world to be in ruins.)

* * *

They torture her.

First with a syringe, then with a knife. Her skin becomes marred with scars, made of their brutality and her resolve. Her body shakes from withdrawal, from blood loss, but still, she refuses to break.

"Shame," Martine tsks, digs the edge of her knife deeper into Root's skin—Root bites down a hiss. "This could end so quickly for you, if you'd just talk."

Root grins through the pain. "Is this all?" she asks, tries not to wince as Martine twists it.

Martine gives her a thin smile.

"We're just getting started," she coos.

Root laughs as more of her blood spills, staining the blade red, because they don't understand.

If Root's in here, it means Shaw is not. (She's out there, safe and out of harm's way.)

"Looking forward to it," Root smiles, leans back into her chair. Martine strikes her again and again, but Root revels in the pain.

It feels like just penance, for all that she couldn't do.

It feels like warm solace, for all that she could.

* * *

Not six months had passed before the world screamed for peace. It begged for mercy. It mourned for death—but They.

They did not relent.

It wasn't three months later that Finch approached her with an offer:

Help him create a virus, strong enough to corrupt Samaritan's code, small enough to be activated, undetected. In return, he'd give her something she'd been vying for.

Time. A second chance. Another life.

Why give her this, Root asked. Surely he could use it for his ends. Rewrite the world, in which Samaritan did not exist.

Finch smiled at her tiredly, and opened the cell.

("The world has come to this because of my creation. What I had helped build—what I had built. And now our history is coming undone—the cities, the buildings. The people. All the beauty in our history, reduced to ashes. And soon, there will be no present.

If I hand you this, I see no difference—but Ms. Groves.

I trust you with our past more than I trust it with myself.")

* * *

She thinks she hears someone calling out her name. A faint echo, through the halls. Closer, and closer.

Root shuts her eyes.

It's the drugs coursing through her veins, she tells herself. It's the withdrawal. The hallucinations, the delusions—they're not real. It's not her voice. It's not her footsteps.

It's not her.

"Root," she hears again. She feels hands on her shoulders, shaking her. "Wake up."

She's not real. She's not real. She's not—

She hears an irritated sigh.

"We don't have time for this, Root," the voice grunts. She feels cold metal against her wrists—beneath the zip-ties, and then:

They snap.

Root opens her eyes in alarm.

This isn't a hallucination. This is real.

Shaw's here, with her.

"Finally," Shaw smirks, her hair matted on her forehead, her clothes covered in blood. She crouches down, brings Root's arm around her own shoulders. With a hand around Root's waist, Shaw pulls her up. "Now come on."

"You can't be here," Root breathes, tries to push her away with the little energy she has, but Shaw holds her close, her hand firmly in place.

Shaw arches an eyebrow at her, continues to carry her towards the door. "Now's not the time to complain about me saving your life."

Root shakes her head, but stops struggling against her—she knows that her efforts are useless. Instead, she resigns herself to saying:

"You should've let me go."

Shaw stops suddenly, a pained look flashing across her face. After a moment, her expression hardens, and she resumes pulling Root towards the door, murmurs in quiet admission:

"I couldn't."

* * *

They built the code in two weeks and assigned Reese to finish what they'd all started, two years ago. It was easy enough, in theory. Executing it, however, was a different matter.

But her task was complete, and a deal was a deal.

Finch looked down at his device, fiddled with it for a moment. Then he said:

"We're all tempted to make the same mistakes when put in the same circumstances, Ms. Groves. I hope you won't be like us—I hope you won't be like me.

I hope you choose better."

His cheeks were sunken, his shoulders were slumped, his eyes were tired. And it's then that Root saw him for who he was: A broken man, burdened by the guilt and the mistakes of his past.

With brief hesitance, he handed the timepiece to her.

(If nothing else, she promised herself this:

She won't be like him. Shaw will live.

No matter the cost,

no matter the consequence—

she will live.)

* * *

She should've expected this, she should've known.

Samaritan had led Shaw here. He'd leaked her location to bait Shaw here. It was a trap for them to kill her—to kill both of them. And Shaw walked into this knowing full well that it was.

Now here they are, cornered by Samaritan operatives, all exits blocked, and out of options.

"You shouldn't have came," Root exhales as Shaw drags them down the hallway, her arm around Root's waist.

Shaw scoffs. "Couldn't exactly leave you here to die," she says sarcastically.

"Yes," Root bites, frustrated. "You could've, for the mission. For the team."

For me, is left unsaid.

Shaw laughs to herself in disbelief, shaking her head. "You don't get it."

"They're here!" Root hears a man shout. The sound of footsteps multiply, coming towards them.

"Shit," Shaw mutters under her breath, turns them around to rush towards the other direction.

"Just leave me here," Root says again. "You'd run faster without me. There's still a chance for you to make it ou—"

"You don't get to sacrifice yourself," Shaw cuts off, her tone harsh. "You don't get to die. Not without me." She briefly looks down at Root, her expression hard. "Got that?"

Root stares at her as she drags them both down the hall, the beginnings of a sad smile spreading across of lips. Because she understands. She does.

And that's why she looks down at the timepiece on her wrist. That's why she turns the dial further back, to two years past.

That's why she tells Shaw this before she presses it:

"Don't forget me, Sam."

* * *

His words of advice:

Choose one moment to change, and choose it well. In truth, the past can only be undone in one instance. All other paths, at the end of it all, lead to the same road—this road.

Root gave him a humorless smile, because that's nothing she hasn't heard.

(At best, they'll make it out alive, but apart.

At worst, they won't survive.

That's how it's always been,

and that's how it'll always be.

It's as simple as that.)

* * *

She comes face to face with a hotel door, to the room where they'd first met, and out of impulse—out of habit, knocks on it.

It opens.

"How can I help you?" the woman in front of her asks.

Root smiles graciously. "Are you Victoria Sinclair?"

The woman returns the smile hesitantly.

"I am," Victoria confirms. "Is there anything you need?"

She knows what she wants to do. She wants to say yes. She wants to tell her that she's Michael Cole's partner and needs her intel. She wants to enter the room, lock Victoria in the bathroom, and take her identity as her own. But above all, she wants to open that door when it knocks again, and see her face when it opens.

She wants to meet Shaw like it was the first, and start over. She wants to—more than anything, she wants to. Just one more time.

But in the end, she doesn't. In the end, she tells Victoria this:

"No, nothing at all. Have a good day."

She turns around and walks away. She hears the door close behind her, and leaves the hotel.

And if she sees Shaw's black car parked out front, if she sees her pass by in the hotel lobby, if she hears the sound of her voice as she walks out, she pretends she doesn't notice.

She pretends.

* * *

This is the story their lives told:

She met Shaw, and they fell in love. But through the danger, through the loss, through their lives falling apart, their paths crossed never once. What they had became filled with missed chances. What they had became a series of what-ifs and never was.

And what they had wasn't enough.


End file.
